


sleeping lessons

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dreams, Fluff and Humor, Insomnia, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Revision Of Internal Schemas As Watershed Romantic Event, Strength Kink, little bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: Edward keeps falling asleep. Jopson keeps waking him up. Oh, dear.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 16
Kudos: 77





	sleeping lessons

It was a nice day. Bright morning sunlight was dappled across the fields; the air smelled of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle, and with each deep breath Edward took he felt himself grow lighter.

A large willow tree grew above him, keeping him safe in its shade. The solidity and weight of the trunk against his back was comforting. It felt alive, as if he could feel it breathing. Its leaves rustled, whispering— what were they saying? His name, perhaps? No, not his name. His title: _Lieutenant, Lieutenant… !_

Then the tree shook him. 

“Lieutenant. You fell asleep, sir,” Jopson said quietly, drawing back once he seemed confident that Edward wouldn’t topple to the deck without his support. 

“Asleep…?” Edward blinked, shaking his head to clear it of that golden vision, until only Jopson’s focused gaze remained.

“They didn’t notice,” Jopson said, nodding over to where Captain Crozier, Mr. Hornby and Mr. Blanky were sitting at the table just a few feet away, deep in conversation regarding potential routes the lead parties might take, come spring. 

“Mm. Right. Good,” Edward said, rubbing at his eyes. He straightened up, returning to attention as Mr. Blanky began to speculate on the likelihood of a May thaw, versus the more likely June. 

Helpfully, Jopson didn’t leave; for the rest of the meeting he darted around the far side of the Great Cabin, doing inexplicable stewardly things with cloths and china. The graceful, constant movement in the corner of Edward’s eye did much to help him remain awake as he attended to the rest of the proceedings. 

Once he’d conferred with the Captain and received his orders, watched the man retreat into his berth and slide the door closed, he crossed the room to where Jopson was industriously re-arranging books on the shelf. 

“My apologies for before, Jopson. I’ve been… sleeping poorly, of late,” Edward said. He would not have admitted it to anyone else, but Jopson had caught him in the act, and as such deserved an explanation.

Jopson’s expression took on a slightly pitying cast, which Edward found he didn’t much appreciate the look of. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” the steward said blandly. “I know some find it difficult to keep their natural rhythms, without the presence of the sun. Have you visited the sick bay?” 

Edward restrained a wrinkle of his nose. “Dr. McDonald offered to mix for me a tincture of laudanum, said it would be the simplest solution to my difficulties, and in fact he’d already prescribed the same to a few of the other officers— but I abhor the stuff. Gives me horrible cramps, learned that on the _Donegal_. No, I told him I’d have to find another way.” 

An odd shade had passed across Jopson’s face as Edward spoke, but by the time he finished it had resolved so completely Edward was sure he'd imagined it. 

“I’m sure an adequate solution will present itself in time, sir,” Jopson said, nodding politely before turning back to his work. 

Edward found himself peculiarly disappointed, as he moved off down the passageway. What had he been expecting? Sage advice? The man was a captain’s steward, not a physician. Probably he thought him awfully pathetic for being an officer unable to stomach even the mildest tincture of laudanum. 

***

It happened again during forenoon watch, the following day. One moment, Edward was overseeing repair of part of the upper deck’s covering, standing by the open hatchway watching seamen carry bundles of patched sailcloth up into the cold— and the next, he was surrounded by a golden afternoon, with a fragrant breeze blowing, and the sound of birds coming from close by. 

This time, he was some yards distant from the willow tree, closer to the edge of the green field. He lifted his face to the sky, letting the sun warm his skin, and then noticed that there was someone walking down the road, coming slowly towards him. 

With the light in his eyes, he could not quite make out the fellow’s face, no matter how he squinted. But he could see, from his gait, from the way the dark silhouette moved against the haze of the road, that he was delicate, lissome— _supple,_ Edward’s mind offered, and he felt a frisson of shame at the thought, having never in his life found cause to describe a man using such a word. 

And he knew, in that definitive way one does in dreams, that once the man reached him he’d find that he could look down, gaze into clear eyes and caress an elegant cheekbone, and perhaps would hear a soft sigh in response—

Someone touched his shoulder, jerking him out of sleep, and he toppled backwards; another hand caught him at the small of his back, halted his descent halfway, and his eyes flicked upwards to meet the impenetrable stare of Thomas Jopson. 

Though now fully awake, he remained paralyzed for an endless, indecent, incandescent moment. 

There in the steward’s arms Edward considered the fact that he was hardly a small man, or a light one, especially wearing his bulky coat to protect against the chill wind from above, but Jopson seemed to be holding him up effortlessly. The fact would have sent him reeling, had he not already fully reeled. 

An eternity later, it seemed, Edward regained control of himself, lurching forward out of Jopson’s grip and into something resembling a standing position.

He was now eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe with Jopson, whose expression held far too much banked amusement for Edward’s comfort. And he could swear to it— Jopson had not always been this tall, had he? His shoulders had not always been this broad, nor his brow so well-turned and proud, had it?

“Alright there, Lieutenant?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Edward said gruffly, stepping back to put some distance between him and Jopson, tugging at the lapels of his coat. “Perfectly fine.” 

Jopson knelt to retrieve a bundle of laundry— he must have put it down in order to have both hands free to safely wake Edward— and when he stood again Edward had managed to shake off some measure of his shame. 

“Please don’t tell Captain Crozier,” he said, quietly. 

Jopson tipped his head. “Tell the Captain what, Lieutenant?” he said, with a glint in his eye so steely that Edward was hesitant to assign it a label so frivolous as a _twinkle._

He hardly knew if he could trust Jopson to keep his word, but felt it had been worth asking, if just to preserve his own dignity. “Thank you, Jopson,” he said.

“There’s no need to thank me, sir,” Jopson said, and disappeared, laundry in hand, towards the fo’c’sle.

That night Edward lay awake in his berth and felt a rapid revision take place in his head. It was as if leads were opening up in long-frozen ice and he was learning the sea beneath had been bright pink, this whole time. 

He tried to put it into a framing he could understand easily. Jopson was… yes. Jopson was one of those newly discovered tropical animals one might read about in the weeklies, the kind that could make itself seem unassuming and dun from a distance, but if threatened might reveal florid colors, elaborate patterns, unreal organs. 

No, wait. He had a better one. Jopson was like the sharks he’d met off the coast of Italy, tame enough to touch, but when stroked against the grain revealed skin so sharp it could shred one’s hands to ribbons. 

Or— or perhaps he was more akin to an animal from myth, composed of many disparate parts— the feathers of a crow, the talons of a tiger, the fangs of a snake, the eyes of a cat… 

Edward lay awake the rest of the night, thinking about strange creatures, and doing no dreaming whatsoever. 

  
  


***

  
  


Sir John was due on _Terror_ for supper in the wardroom the next evening, and Edward was more than dreading it. 

If Commander Fitzjames had been set to come aboard as well, Edward could trust that the man’s fascinating stories and theatrical manner of telling would keep him well engaged. No matter how many times Fitzjames told of the India mails, or the Syrian blockade, the tales somehow always reached Edward’s ears as new and fascinating as if it were his first time hearing them.

But Sir John alone meant perpetual maundering on, about the injustices he faced in Van Diemen’s Land, the trials of his overland journeys, the necessity of regular prayer to see them all through the winter. 

Were Edward to drop off in the middle of a meal with the expedition’s leader there would be hell to pay— not only from Captain Crozier in the form of deserved recrimination, but even worse, from his fellow lieutenants, as endless and uncreative mockery. 

Sitting down at his place he picked up one of his forks, rubbing his thumb over the engraved _E.L._ in its handle before taking it in one hand, lowering it below the table, and experimentally jabbing its tines into the side of his upper thigh. 

The pain, sharp and clear, cut through the fog of his exhaustion quite satisfactorily. Edward was mentally preparing himself to spend the entire meal engaged in this ridiculous but necessary charade when there came a slight cough from behind him, and a soft but insistent voice said, “There’ll be no need for that, sir.” 

“No need for what?” said Edward, ridiculously, shoving the fork between his legs as he turned to face Jopson, who was hovering at the wardroom wall behind him.

Jopson motioned to his poorly hidden cutlery. “Self-abuse, sir.”

Edward swallowed. 

“I can ensure that you don’t drift off, Lieutenant, if you’ll just leave the matter to me.” 

“And how do you propose to do that?” said Edward skeptically. 

Jopson held out a hand. Edward automatically handed him the fork before he’d realized what he was doing; Jopson replaced it carefully at his place setting, adjusting it until it was perfect, and then said, “Turn around, sir.”

Edward did so; his hands, not quite knowing what to do with themselves, wound together in his lap. 

Suddenly he felt the strangest sensation, sending a shiver through his limbs like lightning, and an involuntary bubble of laughter swelled in his stomach before he cut it off at his throat. 

He turned around to find Jopson holding up a scrap of folded paper— he must have swept it against that spot at Edward’s nape, where even the lightest touch was liable to send him shuddering.

“You are sensitive there, are you not, Lieutenant?” said Jopson, giving absolutely no indication as to how he might have come by this knowledge. “I shall give you an unobtrusive brush each time I pass you by. Nobody will notice, and you’ll remain awake.” 

“Really, there’s no need—” Edward began, but Jopson interrupted, rather impertinently. 

“Would you rather I allow you to fall face-first into your soup? Sir?” The way he said it, with a nearly invisible smirk playing at one corner of his mouth, made it clear to Edward that he was not in jest. 

“...No.”

“I didn’t think so, sir. So please, allow me."

Moments later the rest of the officers were seated; no sooner had the Allsopp’s been poured than Sir John had started in on yet another tirade against Montagu, and Edward’s eyes begun immediately to glaze over and then, inexorably, to drift closed. 

But just as the situation became precarious, he felt that flicker of sensation at the back of his neck, and snapped immediately into renewed wakefulness.

When Jopson next made his way to the other side of the room Edward caught his eye and nodded tightly in approval. 

Jopson responded with a small smile, which disappeared from sight altogether too quickly, as he bent to pour Captain Crozier another drink.

***

Another sleepless night later and it became clear that the situation could not hold for much longer. He had survived supper but Edward could hardly go about his days requiring the Captain’s steward to tickle the back of his neck every other minute, could he? 

The increasingly probable thought of accidentally drifting off into a sunlit dream while mid-conversation with his Captain about matters of life and death brought up nearly as much hot bile in Edward’s throat as McDonald’s tonic would, were he to try and take it. 

And not only was he exhausted, but when he had the strength of mind enough to concentrate on anything at all, he found his thoughts inexorably turning to the sensation of Jopson’s firm grip on his shoulders, his steady hand at his back, his light eyes bearing into Edward with inscrutable intention. 

It was a kind of delirium he had no frame for, no reference whatsoever; even in his worst runs of sleeplessness aboard past postings he’d never been tortured with such constant intrusions into good sense.

A first time for everything, he supposed glumly. 

***

In the Great Cabin that morning Edward was in the middle of copying over the newest of Captain Crozier’s magnetic observations into their dedicated log— and then, all at once, he wasn’t.

The dream had changed, ever so slightly. What had once been an empty field and road was now the lawn of a great country house, sprawling in all its ivory, ornamented glory at the top of a broad drive, windows glittering in the light of the setting sun. 

Edward walked up the drive a leisurely pace, gravel crunching under his heels. Soon he sped his stride, as he realized that there was someone waiting up at the entrance to the house. Someone dressed in a perfectly-cut suit, with a waistcoat patterned in delicate swirls of pink and red, and black hair neatly parted and gleaming; someone waving at him, welcoming him in.

“Lieutenant Little,” called a voice, and Edward was confused, because they were alone, there was nobody else for miles around, only the birds and the evening breeze, surely he could call him by his first name, for he would love nothing more than to hear it—

“Lieutenant Little!” 

Edward blinked awake, tried to sit up— found there was something attached, stickily, to his face, pawed it away— 

“Oh, good Lord,” he mumbled, looking down at the ruined spread of figures, an hour’s work utterly smeared and unreadable. 

“You were asleep, Lieutenant,” Jopson said. He had sat down at the table beside Edward, wearing a concerned look. 

“Obviously,” grunted Edward. He brought a hand up to rub at his eyes and let out a groan when it came away tacky and blackened. 

“... Tell me I don’t have ink all over my face, Jopson.”

“I could, sir, but that would be lying.” 

From nowhere, Jopson produced a wet rag, and with the subtlest of motions beckoned Edward forward. Having little recourse otherwise, Edward leaned over, and allowed Jopson to begin deftly attending to his stained cheeks. 

“When the hour is correct, when I have no responsibilities other than to sleep, I simply— _cannot,”_ Edward explained miserably. “I seem solely to be able to rest when I am meant to be working, and even then only against my will.” 

Jopson dabbed carefully at his face, his fingers separated from Edward’s cheek by the meanest measure of thin fabric. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” said Edward, “you _know,_ you’ve _seen_ it happen.”

“Oh, but I haven’t,” said Jopson, “otherwise I would’ve had to report it to the Captain, and you asked me not to do that.” 

“Enough with this charade,” said Edward, meaning to sound stern, but it came out as more of a whine. “I just don’t know what to _do._ I cannot go on in this manner. It is— unbecoming. Inconvenient. _Embarrassing.”_

Jopson was silent for a moment, turning Edward’s face with slight pressure to his chin and beginning to wipe, with excruciating care, at the other side. 

“I may have a solution, sir,” he said, at length. “It will sound a bit… unusual, to you, perhaps, but—” 

“Anything,” said Edward. “Please. I’ll try anything.”

  
  


***

Edward felt ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. It was the hour he would usually be bedding down for the evening, removing his cravat, perhaps reading a few passages from _Ivanhoe,_ which at his current pace he would not finish until he was made Rear-Admiral. 

But currently he could be found sitting starched and fully clothed, in his dress uniform and boots, at the wardroom table. A ledger was spread out before him, a pen was in his hand, and his inkwell stood at the ready. 

Across from him, Jopson stood shuffling through minutes from past command meetings, setting pages down and pushing them over the table to Edward.

“You really think this will work?” Edward said, a pit of dread growing in his chest. 

“You said it yourself, sir,” Jopson said. “You only ever seem to sleep when you have other duties to attend to. So I do believe this should be sufficient— I’ve focused on issues of inventory and victualling, since those are the subjects which you most often delegate to Lieutenant Irving when assigned.” 

Edward regretted ever letting Jopson into his confidence on this matter, even inadvertently; regretted even moreso what he was learning about the other man in the course of it. 

Had Jopson realized how telling it was that he knew such things about Edward— the places he could not suffer to be touched without twitching, the parts of his duties he found most intolerable? Could he possibly know how it made Edward feel, that he did? 

Thankfully before Edward could think any more on the subject, Jopson cleared his throat. “So, Lieutenant, regarding Mr. Wall’s report on a proposed change to breakfast rations in the gunroom, per request of the messing officers, what is the present state of our supply of raisins?”

“Yes, of course,” said Edward, flipping to find the appropriate page in his ledger. 

“And additionally,” Jopson went on, his tone efficient and utterly dreary, “Mr. Gibson has made note that his pantry’s supply of hair oil is low, and wishes to requisition some from mine, however I have reason to believe he is exaggerating the issue… ” 

The figures in the ledger below soon blurred before Edward’s eyes; Jopson’s drone faded into the soft sounds of wind through willow branches, the distant hooting of an owl. 

The night was warm and starlit; the familiar, nostalgic scent of a late summer bonfire somewhere far off mixed with that of the grass and dew below. Above Edward the moon shone with a waxing, silvery confidence. 

He was was moving across the lawn towards the lit windows of the great house at a steady pace— and yet, he was not walking. 

Someone was carrying him. 

Held safely by strong arms, in this moment he was party to no responsibility, beholden to no crew nor Captain. 

“You just rest, now, Edward,” he was told; and before the night closed in around him once more he was kissed, just once, on the forehead. 

***

When he awoke it was to the sound of three bells; morning watch, his unerring seaman’s time-sense told him. Still over an hour to go before breakfast— but he’d slept through the night, sure as anything. 

Beneath the sheets, he was still fully dressed. He could not explain the disappointment he felt upon realizing this; yet it mingled quickly with the onset of an odd relief, the thought that he would be awake and aware, the first time Jopson saw his bare arms, his chest… 

What a strange thought. His head, he realized, must still be addled from sleep, the most he’d had in weeks...

But he had not started the night in his own bed, had he? 

Against his will, his mind promptly began to knit the dream together with scenes that must have occurred here on _Terror_ : Jopson carefully stowing the ledger and papers in their proper places; smoothly and easily lifting Edward from his chair and carrying him, unseen and unheard by anyone, across the passageway to his cabin; depositing him in his berth and ever so gently drawing the blanket across, before dousing the lamp, and pulling the door quietly closed.

Edward's hand flew to his brow, recalling the gentle press of Jopson’s lips there— for it had been Jopson, carrying him across that sloping lawn under the moonlight, it could not have been anyone else— and wondering, was that as well not just of the dream, but the waking world too? 

He laid there, quiet and still, until the next bell, reveling in the twin sensations that had overtaken him. 

He was utterly well-rested— and terrifyingly in love.

***

**Author's Note:**

> my third eye is OPEN i have seen the joplittle LIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe) and [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com)


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